


Fürchtet euch. Fürchtet euch sehr.

by varenoea2



Category: Rammstein
Genre: F/M, Haifisch, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sonne, everybody loves Snow-White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 09:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8707822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varenoea2/pseuds/varenoea2
Summary: A sad tale of heart-rending tragedy, domestic abuse, and carnal desire, and early and romantic death. About six pussy-whipped Dwarves and an evil Snow-White. But one day, Snow-White goes too far. Fortunately, the boys know how to make the best it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own or know the people in the band "Rammstein", or the characters they portray in the video "Sonne". Also, I don't own Snow-White, but if you didn't know that, you have to ask yourself the big questions in life. I am not affiliated with any of the above, and I make no financial profit from this piece of fanfiction.
> 
> (About the "a digger named taylor" joke: "Schneider" means "taylor". So there.)

Once upon a time, they’d had names. But now they’d long forgotten them. They had no need for them, always doing everything together, working, digging, eating, sleeping, breathing the same dirty air in the mine. So they eventually, quite without noticing, forgot about them. They’d become a lot like their machines, doing the same thing in sync, their lives dictated by the rhythm of their work.

Snow-White gave them names, but they weren’t nice names. The shortest one she called “Noisy”, the thinnest one “Chicky”, the strongest one “Brick-Head”, the one with the prettiest face “Erica”, the bald one ”Boiled Egg”, the one with the furry hood she called “Dunce-Cap”. Snow-White had names for many things that were so common, the Dwarves had forgotten that these things even had names.

But she never gave them a name for the things she made them feel.

Their life before Snow-White had been quite joyless. It had also been free from sadness, rejection, helplessness and pain. And she had brought all of these into their lives, too. But what were they against the joy of being near her? Her sweet smell, her beautiful hair, her big, soft-looking bosom, her snow-white skin? What were these little obstacles against the feeling of squeezing your head against her bodice and hearing her heart beat? Wasn’t this all you could want in life?

Well, the truth was this: the Dwarves wanted something else. What – they didn’t know. Nobody had bothered to explain it to them. Snow-White certainly wouldn’t. But they sensed that there was something going on, something as old as time and as deep as the earth, something that made her the most covetable creature on earth, and them her helpless slaves. They wanted her more than anything else, they just didn’t know what they would do with her if they had permission.

The best and worst of times was when she spanked them. Whenever the findings of the day had been meagre, the Dwarves hoped and prayed. While they were standing in line, they hoped and prayed to be spared from their punishment. Whenever they were on her knees, they sobbed and hoped it would never end, because what was the pain when you were squeezed against her thighs? And your unspeakables pressed against her lap? And her sweet hand touched you – albeit violently – in such a private place? She hated Noisy in particular, so he always got the worst of the beatings.

Snow-White had given them a whole new world. A world of tension, and longing, and tension again, until the whole thing snapped and the spring broke, and you’d end up lying awake in bed, trying to find a little bit of release with your hand, hoping and praying that Snow-White wouldn’t hear you. She’d never speak to you again if she knew that you did these crude, awful, slimy things. She was so pure, she probably didn’t even know these things existed!

And what did it matter that they all shared the same misery, and happiness? It brought them closer together, if anything. Sometimes at night, they would comfort each other after the beatings, or sleep spooning together, and help each other out with their hands, or cry on each other’s shoulders. But they could not bring themselves to standing up for themselves. To annoy Snow-White? Maybe even to live without her? Unthinkable! They had no will Snow-White could break. They were hers, and they were in this together, for better or worse.

 

But then, things changed.

One night, Boiled-Egg brought her the findings of the day, and she was so discontent she hit him square in the jaw so hard that he crashed into the table and hit his head, bleeding from his nose. He then fell unconscious and began to twitch, and it was the worst thing any of the Dwarves had ever seen. They thought he was going to die. 

They brought him to bed, and spent a long time sitting with their clasped hands in their laps, their faces pale under the dirt, crying silently for their brother. It was Erica who held vigil by Boiled-Egg’s side until morning, when he woke up and was almost himself again. 

They didn’t take him to the mine that day, but they knew Snow-White wouldn’t have that. So they hid him. Since Snow-White was sleeping in all of their beds, they had built themselves a big pillow-fort on the floor, out of coats and blankets and everything they had – and if you bunched up the fabrics a bit here and a bit there, you could hide Boiled-Egg underneath and she wouldn’t see it…

It was also Erica who had a strange dream the next night. In his dream, somebody was calling him.

_Erica… Erica… wake up, Erica… Wake up!_

He was trying to, but the dream held on to him like a swamp.

_Erica! Wake up! Hey Erica! ‘ey, Erica… ‘ey, ‘rica… rica… rica…_

“Richard”, he screamed and shot up from the covers.

Noisy, who had been trying to wake him, flinched. “Huh? What was that?”

“Richard”, babbled Erica and repeated it a couple of times. “Richard, Richard, Richard.”

“What’s Richard?” said Noisy.

“My name”, gasped his friend. “My real name. Richard.”

“That’s a good name”, said Brick-Head jealously. “I want one like that. I wonder what mine was like.”

“What’s going on?” mumbled Chicky, who was just waking up.

“Erica’s remembered his name”, replied Noisy.

“It’s Richard”, shouted Erica. “Richard! Not Erica!”

“Wait, didn’t we all used to have names?” wondered Dunce-Cap. “I think we did.”

“Yours was Schneider”, said Boiled-Egg quietly, his head still thickly bandaged.

Brick-Head gasped. “Mine’s stitched into my collar! Quick, have a look!”

Noisy nearly strangled him, trying to read the crude letters in the back of his collar. “Till”, he read. “Till? That used to be your name? Sounds a bit short.”

“It’s better than a digger called _taylor_ ”, said Brick-Head.

“Damn, now I want my name too”, said Chicky. “I know it was something with an A. A…. A…. it’s on the tip of my tongue!”

And all that day and the following days in the mine, they thought and guessed and tried names, until they found the ones that fit Chicky, and Noisy, and Boiled-Egg. 

Ever since they had their names back, nothing was the same. They still loved Snow-White with all their hearts; she was their joy, and their pain, and the apple of their eyes; but something had changed. One day, it began to show.

“Noisy”, said Snow-White, “my shoes are pretty dirty after the walk I took in the forest. You’ll clean them for me, won’t you?”

“Of course, Snow-White”, said Noisy. “But don’t call me Noisy, please, Snow-White. My real name’s Paul.”

That was a big mistake, as witnessed soon after by Paul’s hindquarters. She had never spanked him so long, or so hard before. Paul lay in bed crying that night, Schneider next to him, stroking Paul’s naked shoulder while Paul was trying to give himself some relief in the middle of his tears. The others listened to his crying for a long time. 

And who knew, perhaps it was Paul (whom she had always spanked the worst), or perhaps it was Chicky, or Flake (whom she had always called ugly), or perhaps it was Schneider (who couldn’t stand to see what she’d done to Paul); or perhaps it was Boiled-Egg, or Olli (whom she had nearly killed), or it was one of the other two, who were the oldest and felt responsible; in any case, it wasn’t a big deal, you know, stealing her syringe while she was having a bath, and filling it a little more than she always would. Or a lot more than she would. Maybe pulling the whole thing full of gold-dust, and then putting it back. She’d never know the difference.

So when they came back from the mine and saw her sinking into the tub, so beautiful even unconscious – their hearts broke. Every drop of blood running out of her nose hurt them more than any spanking she had ever inflicted on them. 

“Snow-White”, begged Schneider, patting her cheeks, “please wake up! Please speak!”

“Oh no”, whispered Flake, “look at this! The syringe must have been full! All the way!”

With one great gulp, Olli began to cry. He helped Schneider keep her head above the water, he implored her to hold on and stay with them, but she couldn’t hear it. Her lips were turning blue. Her face took on a deadly pallor. 

“Oh no”, sobbed Richard, and pressed his head against hers, “no, please! Anything but this!”

“What are we going to do?” wheezed Till, who liked doing things about things. “We’ve got to do something! Let’s help her!”

“Hm. Keep her warm?” suggested Paul. 

Till shook his head. “No. She’s pretty warm in the tub.”

“Well, then, cool her down?” pondered Paul. “Rub vinegar on her feet?”

“Where the hell do they to revive someone by putting vinegar on their feet?!” said Schneider. 

“Maybe we could give her some foxgloves”, suggested Paul. “They might get her heart back on track.”

“Foxgloves?” said Schneider. “It’s January! Where are you going to find foxgloves under a yard of snow?”

“Well, do you have a better idea? Let's hear it!”

Flake had taken a hold of her wrist and was feeling for her pulse with both hands. “Oh God”, he whimpered. “It’s stopped. It’s stopped!”

For a moment, there was deadly silence over the room. The dwarves could not even hear their own heartbeats. For a moment, they thought everybody was dead, they and Snow-White, and this room was just a tomb.

But then Till said: “Well, we’ve got to get her out of the tub, if there’s even the shadow of a chance to save her!”

And they did. And they laid her out on their makeshift pillow-fort and rubbed her dry, trying to bring some warmth into that lovely, show-white body, wishing and hoping all this time that she would simply open her eyes, and call them names, any names, no matter what names…

“Oh”, noticed Richard. “She’s… well. Broken. See. There’s something missing.”

“Really”, mumbled Schneider. “She’s got no… unspeakables. She never told us.”

“I think”, said Till, who was the oldest, “I think it’s _meant_ to look that way. She’s got them all, you know, concealed. Like under-plaster plumbing. I think all girls have that.”

“Oh”, said Flake, his eyes a big as saucers, “how do you use them, then?”, but nobody answered. Snow-White was silent as freshly-fallen snow.

Till bent to feel her jugular. “Nothing”, he said in a broken voice. “Nothing. It’s all over. She’s dead.” And he turned away and sobbed into his collar.

The room was silent once more. But it was a different kind of silence. Lightly as a shadow, Snow-White was lifted off their hearts, with all her beauty and loveliness and all her hatred and pain and misery. They were silent for a long time. They felt empty. But it was, in some ways, a good kind of emptiness. One that wanted to be filled with winter sun and cold nights and the taste of those foods that they had never gotten much of, because Snow-White would eat most of it. An emptiness, not like a desert but like a cup, that was made for filling with whatever you pleased.

Flake was the first to breathe out his relief out loudly. They all looked down on that beautiful, smooth body, with its soft large cushions and the mysterious bit where she didn’t have any visible unspeakables…

“She died”, whispered Schneider, “without ever letting us know what it was we wanted from her.”

“Maybe if she’d let us near her, and be her friends, we could have protected her”, said Till.

“She never let us very near, did she”, sighed Olli.

“Well”, said Paul, “here’s our chance to find out what we want.”

The others’ eyes turned to him.

“You what?!” said Schneider. “She’s _dead_!”

“Well, I don’t mind. As long as she’s still warm. And we can cover up her face with a cloth…”

“Noisy….”

“It’s Paul.”

“Paul, you’re a sick rat and you will not, I repeat, you will _not_ touch her! Besides, who knows what you can catch from dead people. Your death, maybe.”

Paul scowled, took a long look at Snow-White’s body and sighed.

“We’ll bury her”, agreed Till, his voice an ocean of sadness. “We’ll choose a really nice hill for her, where she has a good view of the land.”

(It’s only logical: Dwarves live underground, so when they want to get rid of a body, they put it above the ground. You don’t want to dig a new tunnel and accidentally drill into the remains of Aunt Gretel.)

“And her secrets will be buried with her”, sighed Olli, and lifted up her discarded dress, and buried his face in it.

Richard took a hold of it, too. “It still smells like her”, he sobbed and sniffed it. “I wish I could know what it’s like to be near her… to hold her… and to… to touch her without getting beaten, or scolded…”

“Now we’ll never know”, sniffed Flake. “Just to find out what it is… that thing… that we wanted from her, and that she never gave us. I really wanted to know. I did. I really did want to find that out with someone.”

It was Paul who cleared his throat. He was not to be deterred. "Well... it wouldn't actually... have to be _her_ , would it?"

The other scratched their heads. 

“What have you got in your demented head now, Paul?” said Schneider skeptically.

"I mean, it's pretty dark in here, ahem, and in the right light... I mean...”

Richard snatched up the idea and carried it forward. "Ah! I see. We could replace her. With one", and he gave the others a conspirational look, "of us."

They looked at each other, and at Richard, and back again.

"But how?" whined Flake. "We can't even put on her clothes!"

"Hm", said Richard, " _one_ of us could."

Even before all the others' eyes fell on him, Till knew they meant him. "Well", he said apprehensively, "I can't fill out that bodice. Not in the front."

"But you've got the right proportions", said Paul, and Olli nodded.

"If you don't do it, we'll never figure out what it is that we want from her", said Flake pleadingly.

Till thought about it. Dying without this special knowledge did seem like a terrible alternative. But he felt a bit blasphemous, putting on the clothes of the loveliest, most powerful creature that ever lived, as if they were some kind of toy. He wasn't worthy, he knew it. Her white stockings, these delicate things… he’d tear them just putting them on, because his hands were so rough…

But the truth was, Till would do anything for the others. They were in this together, for better or worse.

"Fine", he sighed. "Give me that dress. I don’t know if I can put it on alone, you might have to help me.”

First he bunched up the blue skirt and put it over his head. It pooled at his feet, but it fit alright around the hips. Then Richard helped him into the blouse. That one was far too large over the chest, but, well, it had been the others’ stupid idea. The others looked on quietly.

“Right”, Till said. “Now the bodice.” He held it against the light. “It comes open in the back, right? Oh dear. Someone’s gonna have to lace it up.”

“I’ll do it”, said Richard, took it out of Till’s hands and loosened the strings. “There.”

Till turned around, held the bodice over his chest, and breathed in. He knew it was supposed to be tight, and he had no idea how it would fit him.

Richard threaded and pulled and threaded and laced. 

“How’s that?”

“Ugh. Tight.”

“Don’t worry, just a minute. I’m almost done. Breathe out!”

“I am!” How much tighter could this thing get? He heard his ribs creaking. 

But to his relief, Richard cried “Done!”, and he exhaled again. The fit was not as tight as it had been before. It wasn’t so bad now. Tight, yes, but not oppressive. 

He patted his ribs. “That’s better. Still empty in the front, though.”

And he turned around, and the looks of the others – open-mouthed, dreamy, soft – hit him like a fist. 

They liked what they saw.

Flake even sighed.

“Not bad”, nodded Richard. “Not bad at all.”

And Paul grinned, for the first time in months. Or was it years? 

"We're gonna need a wig”, he said.

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann laufen sie noch heute in Frauenkleidern rum ;-)


End file.
